


Great Tits of London

by blackmountainbones, BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Birdwatching, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oh my god they were quarantined, Pining, Sexual Humor, gratuitous bird puns, idiots to lovers, ornithologists: more like HORNITHOLOGISTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: When Naboo comes home from Shamanapalooza with a nasty case of Oort Flu, he exposes his flatmates to the highly-contagious disease. In order to prevent the Oort Flu from ravaging Earth, Vince and Howard are forcibly quarantined inside their flat. Vince takes up a new hobby in isolation, and Howard keeps discovering him in compromising positions....
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	Great Tits of London

**Author's Note:**

> All the bird names in this story are either common or colloquial names of actual birds. Turns out ornithologists are just horny nerds. 
> 
> The word “Oort” is taken from the Oort Cloud, which is the farthest known object in our solar system, and named after the astronomer who discovered it. Thanks, Mr. Oort. 

Vince’s mobile was ringing. He checked the screen--Naboo was calling _again_. This was the tenth time in as many minutes. He sighed, and sent the call to voicemail yet again. He was waiting on a call Jean-Claude Jacquettie regarding a party tonight that could end with a possible photo shoot, making Vince Noir the new face of his brand, and Naboo was getting in the way.

It didn’t take long for the ringer to go off again. This time, instead of sending Naboo directly to voicemail, Vince ignored it. Perhaps Naboo would finally get the point and stop calling...

Unfortunately, he didn’t. Vince’s phone went silent, then went off once again.

Howard barged out of their shared bedroom. “What is that awful racket?”

“Ugh, just my phone. Naboo keeps calling me.”

“Why don’t you pick up?”

“You don’t understand, Howard,” Vince said snidely. “I’m going to a party tonight hosted by Jean-Claude Jaquettie. There’s gonna be all kinds of fashionable celebrity types--I just need to know where I’m supposed to meet everyone, and no one’s going to be able to get through if Naboo doesn’t stop calling!”

Right at that moment, Vince’s phone started to ring once again. Before he could turn it to silent, Howard had grabbed it with one of his long arms, and was answering it. 

“Hullo, Naboo,” Howard said, then paused. His face immediately went grim. “What do you mean, Vince and I have been exposed to some malicious virus from outer space?”

The color drained from Howard’s face as he listened. Vince rolled his eyes, assuming Howard was overreacting like he usually did, and went back to artfully applying his outlandish makeup. 

“You’d better tell him yourself,” said Howard sharply into the phone. Handing the phone to Vince he said, “Here.” 

“I told you, I haven’t got time for--”

“ _Make_ time,” said Howard. “I’m making tea.” Howard drifted into the kitchen like a foul-tempered ghost, and Vince put the phone to his ear. 

“What _is_ it, Naboolio? I’m getting ready for my big night with--”

“Shut your face and listen up,” lisped Naboo. “You’n Howard have been exposed to a virus from outer space.” 

“As if,” said Vince chuckling. “Naboo, you’re on fire. What else you got?”

“I’m serious, Vince,” said Naboo, bothering to change his inflection ever-so-slightly so Vince realized he meant business. “Bollo and I caught this weird virus at Shamanpalooza two weekends ago, and we didn’t know it, but we were contagious. You and Howard might have caught it.”

Vince put his mascara down. “Okay,” he said slowly. “But like, if you caught it at some crazy Shaman orgy, it’s a VD, right? Me and Howard can’t have it because you haven’t been bumming us, right?”

“It’s not a VD you utter pillock,” sighed Naboo with exasperation. “And Shamanpalooza isn’t an orgy, it’s a music festival.” 

“Okay, whatever,” said Vince. “What’s this got to do with me’n Howard?” 

“I _told_ you,” said Naboo, “you’ve been exposed. You have to be in quarantine for fourteen days in case you start to exhibit symptoms.”

“I’ve got a party to go to tonight! No way can I be on _quarantine_ ,” Vince whined.

“Vince,” said Naboo, and Vince could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is _serious._ This disease is highly infectious for Earth people. If you have the disease and go out tonight, you could ultimately spread it to hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of people. But if you and Howard stay inside, we might be able to contain it. The Shaman Council can definitely cure two humans, but we don’t want to be responsible for a global pandemic.” 

“Ah, piss off,” Vince said. “What’re you going to do, come all the way from Xooberon and lock me up? Aren’t you in quarantine yourself?”

“Well, no, not _me_ ,” said Naboo. “But the rest of the Council is coming. They should be there to lock you down any minute now.”

Vince sputtered in outrage, but before he could even organize his jumbled thoughts into words, a crowd of shaman in dressed head-to-toe in biohazard gear broke into the flat.

Vince shrieked, accidentally hanging up on Naboo in his panic. He fled to the kitchen to find Howard sitting with a teacup halfway to his mouth, his jaw dropped and fear in his tiny eyes. 

“Back this shit up,” said Saboo’s unmistakable voice, filtered as it was through the yellow biohazard suit he donned. “You’re under quarantine.” 

Without any conscious thought, Vince fluttered over to Howard, hiding himself behind the larger man, their earlier quarrel forgotten. 

The two men stood in terror as Saboo, Dennis, and what appeared to be Tony Harrison filed into the flat, each wearing a yellow hazmat suit and helmet (the feat of clothes engineering to get Tony Harrison into a biohazard suit was _incredible,_ Vince thought to himself). The shaman entered the flat, sprayed a fine mist over everything, and deposited a cardboard box on the kitchen table. Howard started a weak protest, something about how books and guitars should not be sprayed with foreign substances, but one sidelong look from Saboo shut him up. 

“Awww, cheer up,” said Tony Harrison, giving them a maniacal grin as he scuttled across the floor. “It’s just Kuiper-grade disinfectant! You’ll have the cleanest flat on Earth!” 

“Thanks,” said Howard drily. 

Once the flat had been disinfected, Dennis and Tony Harrison backed themselves out of the flat. Tony Harrison waited at the top of the stairs for Saboo to pick him and carry him down, as staircases were one of the things that gave him the most trouble.

“Right,” said Saboo. “Those,” he indicated the box on the table, “are some provisions for you. You’ll likely need more before the quarantine period is up, so my card is inside. Call me and we’ll have more things delivered as you need them.”

“Why can’t we get them ourselves?” griped Vince.

Saboo shot him a withering look. “You are under absolutely _no_ circumstances to leave this flat--not for _anything._ Is that clear?” 

Howard nodded. Vince said, “What about parties? Or walks outside?”

“Absolutely no parties,” replied Saboo. “We’re sealing the property to keep you numbskulls in, and anyone other than us out. As for walks… we can allow you onto the roof and into the alley behind the shop, but there will be force fields in place to make sure you don’t exceed your boundaries. Are we clear?”

Howard uttered, “Yes sir,” and Vince nodded sadly. 

“Good. Because if you try to cross the force fields, you will be vaporized into nothingness,” Saboo said, nodding to Tony Harrison. “Allow my tentacled friend to demonstrate.”

Tony Harrison tossed a coin at the open window. The coin immediately blinked out of existence, leaving behind nothing but the smell of ozone and burnt metal.

The mask he wore hid his facial expression, but Vince was certain that Saboo was smiling smugly beneath it. “Au revoir,” said Saboo, shoving Tony Harrison into his side as he left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Howard and Vince were left alone in the flat with more questions than answers, the lingering smell of Kuiper-grade disinfectant, and each other. 

With a sigh, Howard decided to open the box of provisions. A massive bag of seeds and nuts had been crammed inside of it. “What’s this?”

“Trail mix?” Vince asked.

Howard squinted at the packaging, which depicted some jays and a chaffinch. “No, not trail mix-- _birdseed_.” He tossed the bag onto the counter with a huff. “Who put Tony Harrison and Saboo in charge of procuring sustenance for us? They’re shaman--they don’t know what _normal_ people eat.”

Vince shrugged. “Well, it’s kind of the same thing...”

Howard pointed to small text near the bottom of the bag which read NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. “Not really. Says right here humans aren’t supposed to eat it.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to call them and let them know we need human food,” said Vince, trying to be helpful.

Howard sighed dramatically, bracing himself on the kitchen counter. Vince said nothing, and really didn’t feel anything but annoyance. He could sense a dramatic Howard monologue coming in three… two… 

“Oh, Vince,” sighed Howard, exactly on cue _._ “All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity…”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Vince, his ire rising. He stomped down the steps and slammed the door on his way out to the back alley. He needed fresh air, and time away from Howard and his moping. What did Howard have to be sad about anyway? It’s not like he had a thriving social life that he’d miss while they were in quarantine. He had _no_ life. 

Vince on the other hand… he was missing his party tonight, and the once-in-a-lifetime chance to be the face of Jean-Claude Jaquettie’s new line. He’d miss pulling attractive people, Leroy, and free alcopops, but he’d _especially_ miss the attention from young, attractive, fashionable people that Vince craved so badly.

He kicked a pebble in frustration, then huffed and sat himself on the slightly-rusted wrought-iron bench someone had dragged into the garden. Vince hadn’t been out back since the debacle with the garbage and the Crack Fox, but he was pretty certain there’d never been a bench out here before. He looked up and noticed that many things had changed about the little alley behind the Nabootique since he’d been here last. 

For one, it had been cleared of garbage, to reveal a small patch of grass that was starting to turn green with springtime, and a small, modest garden bed. Some daffodils were starting to bloom in the early-spring sunshine, but the garden was still mostly full of dead leaves and dirt. There were some large terracotta pots at the far corner, next to a scrawny-looking tree from which an ancient, empty bird feeder was hanging.

Huh. Someone had been working on the garden since the binmen had come and cleared the crack fox’s crack den away. Maybe Naboo was hoping to grow some marijuana this season?

Vince sat on the bench, sulking. It wasn’t fair that he and Howard had to be locked in together for two whole weeks. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded it so much a few years ago, before Howard had gone so _pathetic_ and become such a damn energy drain to be around all the time.

Sure, Howard had always been prone to melancholy, but he’d always had an inflated sense of self-importance that had kept him from going completely wrong. These days, however, Howard was miserable all the time, and his increasingly-obsessive niche interests, coupled with his depressing worldview, made him almost intolerable to be around.

Though Vince was lost in thought, he became gradually aware of the sound of birds chattering. Looking down at his feet, he saw two grey pigeons, pecking at an apple core that had escaped the bin. One of the birds nipped at the other’s feet every time it tried to take a bite of the apple core, causing it to retaliate by flapping its wings at its tormentor.

Vince laughed to himself as he watched the birds continuing their goofy dance, letting out occasional coos as they antagonized each other. It was silly, but it was helping to improve Vince’s mood.

Vince couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply sat outside and watched animals. When he and Howard had first moved to the city, accompanying Naboo and Bollo to the flat after the Zooniverse closed, Vince had been sad and missed the animals. He’d gone to parks and tried to strike up conversation with the animals there, but urban animals were different; they were so used to humans that they rarely bothered to respond. Little by little, Vince had begun spending less and less time talking with animals, all while becoming increasingly consumed by London’s fashionable nightlife, until he could no longer be arsed to spend Saturday mornings in the park, talking to the birds. 

And not long after that had happened, or maybe even before--Vince was a little bit fuzzy on the details--he’d stopped bothering with Howard, too. It made him a little sad to remember how much fun they’d had together back in the zoo days, and how little time they were spending together now. The truth was, Vince missed Howard. But he didn’t know how to tell Howard that without sounding like a massive tit, so he just swallowed the words and carried on, listening to Howard moan and complain about everything and treat him like he was completely unintelligent. Vince figured they were both just trying to keep the peace by walking on eggshells, rather than smashing them outright and ending up in a fight. _Everything_ ended in a fight between them these days. 

Before his thoughts could grow too sad, Vince cleared his head and watched the pigeons bob their heads and flap their wings and coo at each other.

He watched the birds flutter about the garden for a few more minutes, thinking pleasant thoughts about the zoo times as he did. He figured he should head back inside, though he didn’t want to. Vince had never been _trapped_ before, and he found he didn’t like the feeling. 

Still. He’d seen what the force field had done to the coin Tony Harrison had tossed at it, and Vince supposed he really _was_ stuck. 

He stood and stretched his legs. Surely Howard had had enough time to get over one of his monologuing fits--he couldn’t possibly expect to go on all day long. Time to put on some Bowie, Vince thought, and headed upstairs, trying to work out a way to sneak the bird seed into the garden so he could fill the empty feeder and lure some more pigeons--and perhaps even other birds--into the backyard. It wasn’t as fun as a fashionable party, but at least it would give Vince something to do. 

Only 24 hours into the quarantine, Vince was already starting to go mad.

Howard was barely bothering to acknowledge him, and when he did, it was only in monosyllables. The flat, always small, seemed to be closing in on him hour by hour, and, worse, since none of Vince’s friends had seen him in since the day before yesterday, they’d forgotten about him completely. The only person who would still answer his phone calls was Leroy, and he was beginning to think that Leroy just picked up and then put him on mute while he went about his business.

And it wasn’t as though Vince could explain to his Camden mates, “Oh, yeah, I might have an infectious disease from outer space that could possibly infect and kill all of humanity, so that’s why I’ve been in. See you soon!” They wouldn’t understand. He’d told Leroy he was ill, and left it at that.

Worse than any of _that_ was Howard’s moping. Howard had already taken a sadness bath _and_ a sadness shower this morning, both of which had lasted _hours_ . As he’d soaked, Howard had scatted sadly, which was even _worse_ somehow than cheerful scatting. When he bothered to acknowledge Vince, he talked about death and little else, which was already grating on Vince’s nerves. In order to avoid a blowout, Vince had been putting as much space as possible between them, hoping to preserve the tentative peace. 

Which was why Vince was on the living room couch, using his bedazzler to put spikes on his leather jacket to make it look more Joey Ramone, when Howard banged the cupboard closed and sighed dramatically.

“Wotcher, Howard?” Vince asked.

“We’re out of food,” Howard sniped. 

Vince wanted to give a cheeky remark, but decided to keep quiet while Howard figured things out. 

With another, even more dramatic sigh, Howard pulled the business card that Saboo had given him off the refrigerator. It advertised a business named “The Crunch Squad”, and touted “100% Shaman-owned Delivery Service, Fully Licensed and Insured”. Sighing again, Howard looked at the bare pantry and steeling his resolve, called the number at the bottom of the card.

“Hello, sunshine, you’ve reached The Crunch Squad! This is Tony Harrison, CEO and co-founder speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“Erm, yes, hello,” said Howard awkwardly. “This is Howard. Howard Moon? I live with Naboo?” 

“Oh, hello, Tom Selleck,” replied Tony Harrison. “How is the quarantine?”

“Well, it’s been... fine...” Howard lied, winding the cord of the phone around his finger, “until today. We’ve, uh, we’ve run out of victuals.”

“How can you be out already? We just loaded you up! Thirty pounds of nuts and seeds, high in monounsaturated fats and micronutrients!”

“Um, it’s just that, well, you gave us bird seed instead of human food?” Howard explained. “And Vince and I are men, not birds, so it’s inedible, I’m afraid.” 

“I’ll have to forward this to our complaints department, please hold,” said Tony Harrison. Howard could hear a lot of back and forth arguing, and what sounded like a phone being tossed across a small distance. Saboo picked it up crossly. 

“What is the problem, you have three seconds to state your claim. Go,” said Saboo. 

Howard felt the chokes coming on, but forced himself to answer, “Wecan’teatthefood” all in one breath. 

“Why not,” said Saboo. It wasn’t a question. “It’s for birds? Don’t they live on Earth?”

“Well, you see,” Howard explained, “birds and humans are totally different species. We live on the same planet, but we eat different things.”

“Oh, way to go, Tony Harrison, you unique-thinking ball of _shit,_ ” said Saboo sarcastically. “Now we have to go all the way back to Earth and get food for these two nitwits, all because _you_ insisted that they could eat the seed. Really, well done.” 

Howard heard Tony Harrison’s nasal, tinny voice through the phone, something about an outrage, and then he cleared his throat to remind Saboo he was still there. 

“What do you want, you reechy bezonian?” 

“Vince and I could make a list if that would help?” Howard suggested meekly. “Or you could ask Naboo, he knows about Earth food.” 

“Naboo is also in quarantine, and I don’t want to catch whatever filthy pathogens he has floating around in his tiny, awful system. No thank you,” said Saboo. “Make a list. Make it _clear._ We’ll do our best.” 

“Is…” the question started to bubble out of Howard before he could think better of it. “Is Naboo paying you?”

“Handsomely,” replied Saboo. “Make your list. Text it to this number. We’ll do our best.” The line went dead, and Howard exhaled. 

“Vince,” he said. “We need a shopping list.” 

Two hours later, a list was made. Vince had helpfully drawn little pictures of the items, to assist Saboo and Tony Harrison in getting the correct things. He’d also added art supplies, and Howard figured he could add some books, too, for good measure. 

The list-making had been good--it had given them a joint task, something both to occupy time and fulfill a purpose. Howard took careful pictures on Vince’s mobile and texted them to Saboo. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Over the next few days, life in quarantine settled into a routine. While Howard busied himself with frequent sadness showers and jazz fugues, Vince began spending more and more time in the garden.

He couldn’t stand to be so cooped up inside all the time, and while the garden was small, at least Vince could get outside for a bit. He alternated between frantically pacing circles around the narrow yard, and sitting incredibly still on the bench, watching the birds.

He’d dumped a few handfuls from the massive bag of seed into the feeder, and slowly, but surely, it was starting to attract more birds. First had been the pigeons that were common to London, but they’d been joined by crows and finches and more tits than Vince could name. 

Vince liked looking at the birds as they flit around the feeder, fighting each other for more seed. They were funny, colorful things, and the more he watched them, the calmer he felt about the whole “having possibly been infected with a highly-contagious deadly space virus” situation. 

Vince swallowed, making sure his throat didn’t hurt. It was something he’d started doing throughout the day, just to make sure. Sometimes he thought he felt a twinge of discomfort in the back of his throat, then he’d feel sick in the stomach thinking about how he was probably going to get a killer flu from outer space. 

What he really wanted to do was talk to Howard, who usually soothed his irrational fears with a nice, healthy dose of sensibility. But he knew that was out of the question. 

He sniffled a little, tossing an acorn across the alley. Two years ago, being stuck for two weeks in a flat with Howard would have been genius--they’d never have run out of ways to entertain each other, and themselves. But now? It was more like a punishment they both had to endure. 

Vince sighed, stood, and brushed off his jumpsuit, watching the smaller birds flutter away as he did so. The pigeons stayed, used as they were to humans being around. He watched them, drifting further into his own thoughts. 

The thing was, Vince wasn’t missing his sexier, more fashionable friends as much as he’d expected. Not the way he missed Howard, despite being locked in with him, and the silence of his mobile indicated the feeling was mutual.

His thoughts were broken by someone shouting his name from above. Howard was half-leaning out the window, calling “Vince! Dinner’s ready!”

Grudgingly, Vince stood, kicking dirt off his boots, and headed upstairs to eat.

Howard had always been the better of the cook between them, even when faced with the meager selection of nonperishable goods in their pantry. Tonight, it was soup from a can, but it was better than nothing.

“Soup’s good,” Vince said softly.

Howard grunted, but otherwise failed to acknowledge him. Sadness shot through Vince. Once upon a time, they might have done the Soup Crimp, but those days were clearly behind them. Vince ladled soup sadly to his lips, and watched Howard from beneath his fringe. Howard looked sad, too, Vince mused. Dead handsome, as always, but sad. He wished he could cheer Howard up, but knew better than to try. He’d just keep quiet and eat his soup and stay out of Howard’s way. 

The dinner passed, with no sounds aside from chewing, swallowing, and the clink of silverware against plates. 

Vince cleaned up after, the silent, ancient agreement of “you cook, I clean” holding true even in these strange times. Howard watched him flit around the kitchen and stifled the old flame of desire that threatened to rear its head. Those days were done, now. Quietly, he shuffled off to his bed to read.

The next morning dawned dismal and rainy.

While spring in England was often a rainy affair, it was a fine drizzle most of the time, or else fits of rain would be interspersed with periods of sun and almost-sun. But that day, the sky was dark and the rain was coming down in droves from the minute Vince woke up, and then it never got any better.

He’d tried to amuse himself by practicing a new dramatic contouring makeup look, and then tried adding sequins to a few of his jumpsuits, but he’d gotten frustrated. He didn’t have the concentration or focus for such detailed tasks. He wanted to go outside. Ultimately, his aimless pacing around the flat was annoying Howard, who’d been trying to watch another one of his pretentious Danish art-house films on the telly. Howard had shooed him out of the flat for the next four-and-a-half hours, until the movie ended, and with nowhere else to go, Vince ended up in the Nabootique, even more bored than he’d been upstairs.

The shelves of the Nabootique were filled with all kinds of oddities, from shrunken heads to exotic water bongs to vintage hats. Vince brushed past it all with barely a look--he’d spent countless hours working in this dumb shop, looking at all the same dumb shit. No, there had to be something interesting in here, or at least something less boring than everything else. 

Vince opened the door to the backroom, where Naboo stored all the stuff he hadn’t had a chance to check for curses, clean, or price. It was full of boxes upon boxes of junk, but that’s all that it was--more useless junk.

Still, he had nothing better to do, and he aimlessly sifted through the boxes, lazily taking stuff out and putting it back in. Finally, however, Vince opened one of the dusty boxes Naboo had gotten from an estate sale just before his ill-fated trip to Shamanapalooza.

He coughed as the box kicked a cloud of dust up into his face, then peered inside. There was a pair of grimy-looking binoculars, which he immediately pulled out to inspect. Underneath the binoculars, however, was a stack of wildlife field guides and a whole pile of bird magazines with names like “Great Tits of London” and “Peckers Around the World.” 

Vince sat, cross-legged, on the floor, paging through the magazines. There were so many different kinds of birds--more birds than he’d ever imagined. Some were small and plain, others large and striking. Many were beautifully colorful, or else had interesting patterns on their feathers. Some, like the pheasant, were regal-looking, while others, like the magpie, looked goofy.

So absorbed was he in the September 1989 issue of “Britain’s Best Swallows” that he was shocked to hear Howard shouting at him from the top of the stairs.

“Vince! Vince, _Colobus the Crab_ is on!” Howard shouted, his voice rising in volume as he repeated himself. Vince heard the stairs creak.

Hurriedly, he shoved the birding magazines and binoculars into a massive, bedazzled bowling bag he’d found. “Coming!” he shouted. 

Another creak. “Vince?”

Vince swore internally. There was no _way_ he wanted Howard to walk in on this scene--how could Vince possibly live down being caught reading _bird_ magazines? Birdwatching was decidedly _not_ cool, and had never been, and Vince should know--he’d been subscribing to _Cheekbone_ since he’d been 15, and never, not once, had it been featured in one of _Cheekbone’s_ glossy spreads. “Christy, Howard, I heard you the first time,” Vince snapped, grumpily shoving the binoculars into the bowling bag and trying to zipper it shut. The zipper stuck, and he began to panic--he was running out of time--

The creaking stopped. “Well, if you’re sure--”

“I _am_ sure,” Vince barked.

He didn’t hear Howard say anything about that. He did, however, hear Howard creak his way back upstairs into the flat.

Finally, the zipper came unstuck, and Vince was able to close his bag, and therefore hide any incriminating evidence of his latest hobby. He slung the bag over his shoulder, just barely managing to sneak past Howard and down the hallway to their shared room without being noticed.

Vince shoved the bedazzled bag under his bed and exhaled in relief. He’d have to look at the birding magazines sometime when Howard was off moping in the bath. He also couldn’t _wait_ til the weather cleared up and he go onto the roof to try out the binoculars. They were well dusty, but he could clean them up. He grinned, imagining seeing birds that were outside the confines of the little back alley. Maybe he should start a list… he could draw the birds, too… Howard called him again, and Vince made sure the bag was well-hidden before joining Howard on the couch to watch Colobus. 

Howard had prepared a modest afternoon tea for the two of them to share, two steaming cups of Yorkshire tea, accompanied by a handful of small, lumpy-looking tea cakes that were dusted with powdered sugar and smelt softly of lavender that were probably homemade. Every time Vince leant forward to grab one of the tea cakes, his arm would brush lightly against Howard’s. At first, he’d expected Howard to jump away from the touch, but surprisingly enough, Howard didn’t flinch, so Vince pressed his luck, scooting a little closer to Howard on the small couch.

It was nice, Vince mused, sitting like this and watching reruns of one of their favorite shows. It hadn’t been nice like this in ages. He hadn’t been _in_ of an evening in ages, he figured, so it was as much his fault as it was Howard’s for always being so naggy and dour. 

He wanted to sit even closer, wished he could siphon warmth off Howard like he used to. Vince was always cold, which Howard had always blamed on Vince’s lack of bodyfat and his tropical jungle childhood, while Howard, thick, solid, Northern Howard, always ran warm. When they’d been younger, they’d used to sit side by side so that Vince could absorb Howard’s warmth and Vince could cool Howard down, a mutually-beneficial agreement. Kind of like feeding the birds--the birds got food, Vince got entertainment. It had always been that way between them, until recently.

It hadn’t started with the kiss--in fact, it had started several months before--but it _had_ gotten worse ever since. Vince felt bad that he’d stolen Howard’s first kiss under false pretenses, but it wasn’t as though he’d had a _choice_ \--Dennis would have cut his head off if Vince couldn’t prove that he wasn’t snogging his wife, so Vince had had to snog Howard, only Howard had gone and proclaimed his gaydom to the heavens and everything got confused after that.

Remembering made him inexpressibly sad, and Vince didn’t _like_ being sad. This was the point he’d usually go out and get smashed on flirtinis and dance until 3, but he couldn’t, not with the weird virus thing keeping him inside. 

Howard sighed sadly beside him, and Vince wondered what he was thinking about--had Howard somehow picked up on his own sad musings? Before Vince could think too much about that, his mobile vibrated in his drainpipes.

Excitedly, Vince reached for his phone--surely Camden missed its prince, and the entire township was sending well-wishes and delayed invitations for once he recovered. 

To his horror, he found the texts were all from Tony Harrison, and, worse, each text was a link to news articles with anxiety-inducing titles such as, “Planet Zilrun RAVAGED by Oort Flu” and “Tripedal Species DROP DEAD in Street from Oort Flu” and “10 Ways Oort Flu Will Suck the Life Out of You.” 

In horror, Vince shoved his phone back into his pocket, without even bothering to reply. His distress must have shown on his face, because Howard was looking at him with concern.

“Something wrong, Vince?” Howard asked.

Vince shook his head. Howard gave him another long look, but Vince just pasted on a smile. Howard leaned back into the couch cushions and turned his attention back to the telly.

Vince tried, but he couldn’t focus on Colobus at all. Though he hadn’t bothered to read the articles, the headlines had been terrifying enough. He and Howard still had ten days left in quarantine--what if one, or both, of them suddenly came down with symptoms? A whole _planet_ had been ravaged by the Oort Flu, and Vince had a feeling that the NHS would not be prepared to treat them for a killer space virus. Their only hope for survival was the Shaman Council, and while the Council had lots of experience with making drugs, they tended more towards manufacturing substances such as ketamine and methamphetamine than actual _medical_ drugs...

Vince edged closer to Howard, who was still intently watching Colobus, then edged closer still when Howard did not react. Little by little, he eked closer to Howard, until they were sitting hip-to-hip, and Vince let himself slump a bit against Howard’s side, soaking up Howard’s warmth and his comforting scent, like old books and sawdust.

Howard, for his part, didn’t appear to mind. He didn’t scoot away from Vince, didn’t order him to move… he didn’t get any closer to Vince, didn’t wrap an arm around him like he might have done years ago, but at least he didn’t shoo Vince away, and Vince counted that as a small victory. 

Suddenly, the phone in his pocket vibrated again. Howard startled, then turned to Vince, who was uncharacteristically ignoring his mobile. Several more texts came in quick succession.

“Vince? Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Vince shook his head, not saying a word, his eyes wide with fear. Howard narrowed his already tiny eyes in suspicion, and without warning, shoved his hands into Vince’s pocket. Vince tried to fight him off, but Howard had the advantage of surprise as well as size, and easily wrestled the mobile away from Vince, who sat with his arms folded in defeat. 

“How Oort Flu Has Caused the Galactic Economy to Collapse!” said the text message. While Howard was puzzling over the text, another one came in, reading, “Sex Can Kill: Intimacy and Oort Flu.” 

“Vince,” said Howard. “What the hell is this?” 

Vince shrugged and pursed his lips shut. 

Howard blinked at the lurid text messages. “Oort Flu, that’s what Naboo and Bollo have...?”

“Yeah,” said Vince, his voice low. “Tony Harrison’s sending me stuff about it, I guess.” 

Realization dawned on Howard, why Vince had been so quiet and frightened-looking for the last fifteen minutes, why he’d crept closer and closer inside Howard’s personal space bubble the way he’d used to back at the Zooniverse, during thunderstorms and the hyena mating season, whenever he was scared and needed comforting. 

Howard handed Vince his mobile. “Unlock it for me, yeah?” Vince took the mobile, punched in his lock code, and handed it back to Howard. 

Howard spent an ungodly amount of time punching out a reply to Tony Harrison. When he was done, he cackled a triumphant, “HAH!” and gave Vince back his phone. 

Vince read the reply: “Nice try, Tony Harrison, but these aren’t even peer-reviewed sources. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to scare us. LOL. Thanks, Howard Moon.” 

Vince smiled at that. 

“Now, turn it off,” commanded Howard. 

“But what if--” 

“Has anyone contacted you lately?” asked Howard. 

“No,” admitted Vince sadly. 

“Then turn it off. We don’t need any so-called news from Tony bloody Harrison.” 

Vince hesitated, but Howard closed his palm around Vince’s fingers, squeezing gently. “Trust me, little man,” he said in a voice so earnest that Vince’s heart broke just a little bit, and he hit the power button. The screen went black, and Howard gently eased the phone from his hand and put it on the coffee table, placing a pile of magazines on top of it to hide it from view.

The opening credits for another episode of Colobus scrolled across the screen, and if Vince and Howard sat a little closer than they had before, neither of them mentioned it. 

Vince ignored his phone until the following afternoon, when his curiosity got the better of him. He scrolled through his messages from Tony Harrison, opening a couple of articles about the Oort Flu before he started feeling anxiety bubbling up inside him, like indigestion, but scarier.

He decided to leave his phone in the bedside table drawer and take a shower, clear his mind a bit. Then he wanted to go to the rooftop and look at birds. 

As he showered, his mind slowly started filtering and compartmentalizing the information he’d read. The Oort Flu was serious, very spreadable, and difficult to treat. The bubbles of anxiety settled like a lead rock in his belly. He _hated_ this. He wondered what his odds were, of having the flu. They’d know if, at the end of their mandated quarantine, neither of them showed symptoms that they were in the clear. But still… it was only day five, and Naboo and Bollo had come up positive. He and Howard had a long way to go. 

Vince wanted to talk to Howard, because Howard was usually the rational one, but he also knew that between the two of them, Howard was more prone to anxiety and panic attacks. If the news articles had sent Vince into a nervous fit… what would they do to poor Howard?

Vince resolved to say nothing to Howard. He dried himself off, dressed quickly, and hoped he could figure out a way to get onto the roof to birdwatch for a bit without Howard noticing. 

Luckily, Howard was distracted by the Jazzercise videos that Tony Harrison and Saboo had delivered, and he was prancing about the living room wearing a turtleneck leotard and waving around brass instruments, so Vince slipped the binoculars around his neck, snuck into the attic, and pushed open the latch that led to the rooftop. He clambered outside, and settled himself down. It took a few minutes, but he eventually figured out how to adjust the focus and magnification on the binoculars, and spent a few minutes scanning the streets, seeing nothing aside from the usual pigeons.

Finally, he noticed a nest on one of the branches of the large elm tree in front of the Nabootique. He zoomed in, and adjusted the focus.

At first, there wasn’t much to see, just some twigs and what looked like a ball of feathers. But Vince kept fine-tuning the focus, until the ball of feathers became three tiny, half-bald baby birds.

Their mouths were opening and closing, and though Vince was too far away to hear their song, he was sure they were singing. The little creatures were completely alien-looking, yet cute, but Vince had no idea what kind of bird they might be. 

After he’d been watching a few minutes, a red-breasted bird with a black face landed at the nest, feeding its babies, whose mouths opened eagerly. Vince watched, wholly absorbed, until he heard the trapdoor creaking open behind him.

Anxiously, Vince tried to hide the binoculars, but the strap around his neck made it impossible--Vince succeeded only in choking himself. He sputtered, and turned, to see Howard’s head poking out of the trapdoor.

Howard was staring at Vince with his already-small eyes slitted suspiciously. “Vince? What’re you doing up here?” he asked, looking confused. “Are those--binoculars?”

Too shaken to come up with a lie, Vince said the first thing to come to mind, which was the truth. “Just bird-watching.”

“Bird-watching?” Howard asked, looking confused.

Vince flushed, thinking quickly. He could still save himself from the humiliation of having his secret, dorky hobby exposed. “Yeah,” he said. “You know, watching some birds while I have a bit of a wank. There’re some real sexy birds in the flat across the street.”

Howard’s expression changed. “You were wanking... on the roof?” He looked completely scandalized.

“‘Course I was,” Vince bluffed.

“I’ll just... leave you to it, then,” Howard said, heading back downstairs with the expression of a man who has some rethinking of basic principles to do. 

Vince sighed in relief as soon as Howard had disappeared. That had been _close_ : Howard had almost caught him _bird-watching_ , which was pretty much the least-cool thing he’d ever done. At least Howard had no idea what he’d _really_ been up to...

Howard went inside and decided what he needed was tea. Strong tea. 

Had Vince really been _wanking_ on the roof? While using his binoculars to spy on their female neighbors as he pleasured himself? Such behavior was not only deeply perverted, it was also incredibly illegal... at least, that’s what Vince had told Howard, when he’d caught Howard spying on Mrs Gideon.... 

Rather than being angry about the injustice of it all, however, Howard was mostly confused. 

As he drank his tea, he came to the only logical conclusion: Vince was a sex fiend. 

Howard sighed deeply. It was bad enough that he was stuck in quarantine waiting out a potentially fatal virus from outer space. Now he was stuck in quarantine waiting out a potentially fatal virus from outer space with a _sex addict_. 

Howard pondered for a long time whether or not he should confront Vince about his problem. Clearly, it was bad enough that he was being a menace to society. The right thing, the courageous thing, to do would be to talk to him about it. He’d almost made up his mind to do so when Vince re-entered the flat, grinning sheepishly at Howard before going back to their room. 

Well. Maybe next time something happened, Howard would confront Vince about it. For now, he’d go take a cold sadness shower and try not to think about Vince gratifying himself in public and how warm under the collar that made him feel.

Tony Harrison and Saboo delivered groceries later that afternoon, dumping them on the front step of the Nabootique, sending Vince a picture text, then fucking off as quickly as they’d arrived. Howard and Vince brought the groceries up, pleased to see that most everything on their list had been acquired. Vince happily took his new colored pencils and oil pastels to the bedroom--he was going to sketch the birds he’d seen this morning. 

The Shaman neglected to bring Howard any of the books he had requested, so he told Vince he was headed down into the Nabootique to see if he could find any good reading material in the shop, and if not, he would make another attempt at writing his magnum opus, a jazz musical about a lonely zookeeper whose resemblance to the author himself was uncanny. This was Vince's chance--Howard's so-called magnum opus was sure to keep him busy for at least the next three hours.

Vince sat down on his bed, palms sweating, heart racing with anticipation. Which meant that Vince had ample time to check out the stack of magazines he’d found alongside the binoculars.

He took a deep breath, and lifted his mattress. He’d shoved the magazines between the mattress and the box spring, and he grabbed a handful, then hurriedly replaced his mattress in its proper place.

Vince cracked open the first magazine, luridly titled “Great Tits of London”. He lingered over the glossy pages, ogling the close-ups, stroking his fingers over the birds’ colorful plumage. He hadn’t realized that there were so many different kinds of tits--the great tit, the dusky tit, the sugar tit--and he stared at each in turn, memorizing the characteristics of each.

Eventually, he set “Great Tits of London” aside in favor of “Swallow’s Digest”. He caressed the pages as he turned them, studying the different types of swallows. The centerfold was a close-up of a red-rumped swallow, and Vince narrowed his eyes, studying it intently. 

Suddenly, the door barged open behind him. Vince hurriedly shoved the magazines into a pile, then sat down on them. As soon as he had, he realized he’d left _The Big Book of the Andean Cock-of-the-Rock_ on the bed, and he hurriedly shoved the magazine onto his lap, and hunched over to hide the cover from Howard’s view as best as he could. “Howard!” he snapped crossly. “Y’ever heard of _knocking?”_

Howard, for his part, was standing wide-eyed and gape-mouthed at Vince. Only two days had passed since he’d last walked in on Vince in a... compromising... position such as this, and he’d walked in on Vince wanking _again_. He cleared his throat. “Er, right. My, uh, mistake.” 

He shook his head and slammed the door behind him. The title of the magazine Vince had been reading was, he was certain, “Andy, Cock of Rock.” So… Vince was into men as well as women?

Howard felt a bit ill, and he wasn’t sure why. Vince was allowed to sleep with whoever he wanted, this was a free country. Maybe Howard was put off by finding Vince in compromising positions twice, and in the middle of the day each time? But Howard found that thought didn’t disturb him, exactly. 

He felt a twinge between his legs, and mentally scolded his own cock to not turn to rock. Not right now, not at a time like this. Vince obviously had a problem. This was no time to start getting aroused by it. 

All the mental scolding in the world did not stop Howard Moon from wanking off in the shower that evening, thinking about Vince wanking off around the flat in broad daylight. Afterward, he felt really dirty and gross, so he shampooed again, just for good measure. 

As he lay in bed, listening to Vince’s light snoring, Howard decided what he really felt was sad. If Vince was _that_ desperate to get off, that he’d do something almost-certainly illegal like wanking on the roof--and then get himself off again just days later in broad daylight in their shared bedroom… why wouldn’t he just ask Howard? 

And if he did, would Howard say yes? 

Howard slept fitfully that night, his waking thoughts just as feverish and oversexualized as his dreams. 

Later that night, Vince was woken from sleep by a sharp, shrill scream. He shot up in bed, immediately awake, and scanned the room.

Nothing was out of place. The force-field keeping them inside did not appear to have been breached, so what in the world--

The sound came again, a bit softer and less shrill this time, but unmistakably the same scream. He turned to the source of the sound--Howard was asleep in his bed, but his hair was matted and sweaty, and his face was twisted into a grimace of pain.

Immediately, Vince slipped out from between his sheets, shivering in the cool night air as he crossed the room. He sat down on Howard’s bed, gently prodding Howard’s sleeping form.

Howard let out a pained moan. “Howard?” Vince asked. Howard grimaced again. “Howard!” Vince shouted, shaking Howard by the shoulders.

That woke Howard up. He startled and snapped, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Vince? Molesting me in my sleep?”

“‘M not molesting anyone,” Vince protested. “You were having a nightmare, I was just tryna wake you up!”

Howard’s first instinct was to be skeptical, especially in consideration of the events of the past few days and the overwhelming evidence that Vince was some kind of sex pervert. However, once Howard had been awake long enough to catch his breath, he realized that he had been _out_ of breath, and, also, he was drenched in sweat. Neither the panting nor the sweat had been caused by Vince molesting him in his sleep--it had been caused by _fear._

He sat up and rubbed his temples. Vince handed him some water from the bedside table, which Howard drank gratefully. He was parched. 

“S’alright, Howard,” said Vince, his voice low. “I mean, it’s well scary, innit, all this stuff about the Oort Flu and killer diseases from outer space.” 

“Are you worried, little man?” asked Howard, the old nickname slipping out before he could reign it back in. 

Vince’s blue eyes met his, and he nodded sadly. 

Howard nodded in reply. 

Even if Vince was a sex pervert, he was still Howard’s best friend. And even sex perverts could get scared sometimes. Howard certainly understood fear. He gave Vince a small smile, pulled aside his covers, and patted the mattress next to him. Vince’s eyes lit up like a puppy being offered a walk. He climbed in, and Howard offered no resistance as he curled himself up against Howard’s body. The sheets were gross and a little sweaty, but Vince didn’t mind. 

They didn’t speak any more. Howard’s heart rate eventually evened out and his breaths grew longer and deeper. The sound of Howard sleeping lulled Vince to sleep, too. He was slightly concerned about how they’d handle this in the morning, but he was asleep before he could cook up a solution. Let tomorrow’s worries come tomorrow, he thought, and fell fast asleep. 

The following afternoon, Howard excused himself to the back alley garden to do some exercise, giving Vince a long lecture about the importance of keeping up one’s physical and mental health during times of quarantine. Vince nodded and tried to act interested, but was secretly itching to get Howard out of the flat--a David Attenborough program on common garden birds of England was coming on the telly, and if Howard was outside, Vince might be able to catch some of it. 

The day had passed pleasantly. Waking up beside each other, as it turned out, put both Vince and Howard in a good mood. They shared pancakes and porridge for breakfast, and had puttered around the flat, listening to music and amiably doing the boring little tasks that filled up their monotonous days in isolation. Vince was thrilled that Howard remembered the importance of physical exercise, however… otherwise, he was just going to have to look up the bird show online later and hope he could find it. 

Vince listened carefully for the back door to slam shut. When he heard it, he leaped onto the sofa and switched the channel, breathlessly excited to find that the bird program had just started. Attenborough’s soothing voice filled the flat and Vince sat mesmerised, eyes widening at all the different varieties of bird one could attract to one’s garden with the right assortment of feeders and seed. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he grabbed his birding notebook and flipped to a blank page to start making notes. Some birds liked suet, some liked sunflower seeds, others dried mealworms; some liked running water, other stagnant… Vince was going to have to do a MASSIVE shopping trip once the quarantine was over. Dozens of titillating bird species were flitting across the screen, and he was missing out on them in the back alley due to a lack of supplies! 

Vince was so enthralled with the program and his frantic note-taking that he failed to hear Howard’s steps on the stairs. By the time he realized Howard was home, Howard was at the top of the steps.

Panicked, Vince clicked the television off. “H-howard, you’re uh, back early,” he stuttered, hyper-aware of the bright red blush on his cheeks. Had Howard _seen_...? 

Howard’s eyes flickered between Vince’s flushed face and the blank, black screen of the TV. He reached for the remote, but Howard’s arms were longer, and he snapped forward to snatch it up from the coffee table before Vince could grab it. He aimed the remote at the television, his thumb poised over the red power button.

“Uh,” stammered Vince, “you probably don’t want to do that?”

Howard’s eyes narrowed. “Why not, Vince?”

Vince tried to think fast, but he was too embarrassed about Howard accidentally discovering his sudden interest in an activity as lame as _bird-watching_ , and so, he stammered out an excuse . “Because I was, um, watching... porn?”

Howard sighed in exasperation. “What is wrong with you, Vince?”

“N-nothing,” said Vince, swallowing hard. “What d’ya mean, _wrong_ with me?”

“Ever since this quarantine started,” Howard said, “I’ve walked in on you in some pretty... _compromising_... positions.” He paused, watching Vince’s eyes widen, watched the embarrassed flush in Vince’s cheeks. “In fact, that thing on the roof with the binoculars....? I’m pretty sure that was illegal.”

“Howard--” Vince tried to say, but Howard barreled on.

“Vince, it’s clear that you have a real problem. An addiction or perversion of some kind. Now, I am a man of the world, Vince, and you are my best mate, so I will never judge you, but even you have to admit that doing _that_ multiple times a day, in the middle of the day, and out in public is just not on, Vince!” 

“Howard--”

Exasperated, Howard ignored him. His grip tightened on the remote, and he pressed the on button.

The television flickered to life. In the middle of the screen was a proud, red-chested bullfinch, puffing its feathers to impress the more subdued-colored female in some subtle avian courting dance. Looking at the screen, then looking at Vince, Howard only felt more confused.

“It’s not--not what you think!” Vince shouted.

“What _am_ I supposed to think?” Howard shouted back. Was Vince really getting off on wildlife documentaries...?

Vince got up from the couch and stood in front of Howard. “Look, Howard... I been spending a lot of time in the back garden, is all, and one day I was watching some pigeons fight over an apple core, and then one thing led to another--and now, I’m a _birdwatcher_ ,” he sobbed. “I been _watching birds_.”

“Birds,” Howard repeated, still stunned. “As in, feathered birds. Of the avian persuasion.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, still blushing. “I didn’t want you to know. I was... embarrassed... you know, birding, that’s not fashionable.”

Howard gave Vince an incredulous look. “And somehow, being caught wanking _isn’t_ embarrassing?”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Everybody wanks, Howard. Only swots go birdwatching.”

Howard opened his mouth, then shut it again, repeating this process a couple of times as he processed the information. 

“Vince,” he said slowly, “you lied to me and acted like some sort of… sex maniac, rather than confess you enjoyed _birdwatching?_ ”

Vince scuffed the tip of his pointy-toed boot against the floor. “Well... yes?”

An awkward chuckle escaped from Howard before he could stop it. He tried, he really did, but the whole situation, coupled with the stress of being in quarantine, just seemed utterly absurd, and so Howard laughed. 

Vince looked hurt. “Howard,” whined Vince, “bein’ cool is all I have, yeah? You’re smart and good at work, and I’m not. People like me cos I’m shiny and pretty. Nothin’ shiny about watching birds in the garden.” 

“No, Vince,” said Howard between laughs, “I’m not laughing at you. I swear. I just--I can’t believe it. I’m so relieved you’re not some kind of sex pervert! I was starting to get offended that you'd rather perv on the neighbors than proposition me--"

Howard’s laugh died on his lips as he realized what he’d just said. Vince’s eyes grew wider, a mischievous grin playing across his face. “You wanted me to proposition you, Howard?”

Howard sputtered a protest, but Vince, who had already been standing inside of Howard’s personal space, shuffled a little closer. “Well, you know, Howard... I always thought you had _great tits_.” He placed his open palm on Howard’s chest, right between said tits, his fingers teasing at the dip of Howard’s collarbone, just inside the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. The pink tip of Vince’s tongue stole out to lick at the bow of his lips, then retreated. 

Howard sputtered again, but he wasn’t protesting this time. 

The hand on Howard’s chest teased up his throat and along his jaw. Vince’s face was closer, then closer, then the hand on Howard’s jaw gently tilted his face down. “C’mere, sugartits,” Vince murmured, so close that his words tickled Howard’s moustache, and then, all of a sudden, Vince was kissing him.

This was nothing like that night on the rooftop. For one, they weren’t kissing under threat of decapitation, and secondly, there was no one watching them. This kiss was just between Vince and Howard, no one else.

Vince’s fingers released their grasp on Howard’s jaw, winding into Howard’s fine brown curls and gently pulling. Howard let out an embarrassing sound, and felt Vince’s lips quirk into a smile against his own.

Then Vince was pressing him back onto the couch, and when Howard collapsed onto the cushions, he pulled Vince down with him, opened his mouth, and swallowed Vince by the tongue.

Later that night, Vince and Howard lounged on the sofa, wrapped up in blankets and each other. Howard was half-asleep, a dopey grin on his face. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt so _happy._ Colobus had ended twenty minutes ago, but neither had made any effort to move, or even change the channel. 

After a comfortable silence, Vince shifted in Howard’s lap and turned up his face to ask him a question. “Howard?”

“Mmm?” replied Howard. 

“Do you think that we have that flu?” Vince asked, looking worried. “The one from space?” 

Howard thought. He’d been carefully monitoring himself for symptoms, but none had come up yet. The first couple of days, each twinge and small pain had made Howard certain he was dying, but now… he felt fine. He felt _great,_ actually. He met Vince’s blue eyes, and reached up with his thumb to smooth the worry line between his brows. 

“I don’t know, little man,” he sighed. “We have six more days in quarantine. I suppose it’s possible.” 

Vince nodded somberly. Howard tried to give a reassuring smile. 

“Don’t worry,” said Howard. “I mean, that’s easier said than done, but most people don’t have an entire council of Shaman waiting to take care of them. I think, no matter what, it’ll be okay.” 

“We’re together,” said Vince, quietly and seriously. “So it’ll all be okay.” 

Howard swallowed the emotional lump in his throat. “Yes. We’re together, and as long as we’re together, it’ll all be okay.” He gathered Vince in his arms, repeating the words inside his head until he believed them, then saying them aloud until Vince believed them too.

The days passed in an indeterminate blur--what did time matter when you were trapped inside your flat? The sun rose, the sun set, and all the hours in between, the birds chirped. Howard and Vince cooked the food Saboo and Tony Harrison brought them, danced around the apartment to vinyl records nicked from the Nabootique, spent lots of time in the garden birdwatching, and plenty of time inside shagging each other silly in between fits of angst regarding when, and if, the virus would hit them. 

On the fifteenth day of quarantine, Naboo and Bollo returned to the flat, both a bit frailer and more tired-looking than they’d been before their illness.

Naboo huffed, dragging his bag behind him as he forced himself up the stairs. He had been given a clean bill of health, but even though he wasn’t sick anymore, it was going to take a lot of drugs and a lot of munchies for him to regain his health. 

“Hey ballbags, we’re home!” he wheezed when he got to the top of the stairs.

The apartment was silent. A couple of empty tea mugs and some jam-smeared plates were still on the kitchen table, but otherwise, the room bore no sign of either the glam-rock prostitute or the jazz badger that shared their flat.

Naboo took a moment to catch his breath. “Vince? Howard?” he called, a bit more loudly this time.

Nothing.

“Bollo have bad feeling about this,” Bollo said.

Usually, Naboo’s response to that would be to tell Bollo to piss off, but he was starting to have bad feelings of his own. If Vince and Howard had somehow escaped the force field, humanity itself was in danger...

He shot Bollo a concerned look. Bollo nodded in understanding. Together, shaman and gorilla walked down the hall. Naboo knocked aggressively on the door to Vince and Howard’s bedroom. No one answered, and he threw the door open in a fit of annoyance.

Vince and Howard were not in their room. Strange, Naboo, thought--while it wasn’t unusual for Vince’s bed to be unmade, Howard’s side of the room was usually maintained with military precision, but Howard’s bed was just as rumped as Vince’s.

Bollo’s nostrils flared. “Bollo smell bollocks.”

“Don’t be obscene, Bollo,” Naboo chided.

An inspection of the other rooms in the flat yielded no discernable sign of their flatmates. Naboo and Bollo tiptoed downstairs, into the Nabootique. The store was shuttered, stuck in a strange state of suspended animation. The lights were off, and it was completely silent.

The only place left to look was the small back alley. Naboo braced himself, and threw open the door--

Instead of the pile of binbags Naboo had expected, the alley had been cleared and a tiny garden planted. The oak tree that just last year had been struggling to survive was budding with new growth. Someone had started sprouting plants in the terra-cotta pots, and a riot of daffodils and wildflowers were blooming next to a salvaged-looking wrought-iron bench, currently occupied by Naboo’s errant flatmates.

Said flatmates appeared to be tussling over a pair of binoculars. Howard was holding them up, outside of Vince’s grasp, and Vince was jumping for them. Howard kept yanking them just out of his grip, but then something mischievous flashed across Vince’s face, and he was jumping into Howard’s lap and snaking his arms around Howard’s neck. Howard went still just as Vince leaned forward to plant a kiss on Howard’s lips, and the hand holding the binoculars aloft drifted down to rest against Vince’s waist.

Naboo had been intending to tell his flatmates that their quarantine was over, and they were free to leave the flat and get out of each others’ hair for a while, but he was loath to interrupt such a disgusting display of human sexuality. He felt ill simply from looking at it. 

He did notice that the back alley-turned-garden seemed to host a lot of feathered specimens that made high-pitched whistles and warbles. He wrinkled his nose. This was all too much. 

"Let's get outta here, Bollo. I don't want to get bitten by those weird, feathered insects. They look too much like those Oort flies that bit us at Shamanpalooza.”

Bollo stood beside Naboo, jaw-dropped and silent, and had to be dragged away from the spectacle of Howard and Vince snogging, oblivious and seemingly happy despite their forced quarantine and isolation. 

The birds, of course, were unaware of things such as quarantines and new relationships, concerned only with flying where they liked and selecting the most colorful mate. They were just happy to have an abundance of seed and a clean, quiet space to hide in bustling London, with two new caretakers who seemed overjoyed every time they stopped by. 

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this from an honest place of just needing a cheerful distraction, to work out our anxieties, and to celebrate Stoney’s new bird watching hobby. We hope it helps and delights you as much as it’s helped and delighted us. 
> 
> And if you're inspired to do a little bird-watching of your own, we recommend the videos of Paul Dinning on Youtube. An excellent introduction to common English garden birds can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OKGPwieKLbc&t=1267s).


End file.
